


Songbird

by orphan_account



Series: Shimmer [11]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, Possessive Fëanor, but what else is new
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-13
Updated: 2014-10-13
Packaged: 2018-02-21 02:43:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2451761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tirion knows Fëanáro's second son as a loner-by-choice, cool and aloof, and in a way they aren't wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Songbird

Tirion knows Fëanáro's second son as a loner-by-choice, cool and aloof, and in a way they aren't wrong.

But here in Fëanáro's bed, he is shy and uncertain. And Fëanáro loves him all the more for it — for what Tirion knows is a mask of ice and independence, and that mask is long gone now.

Makalaurë shivers like a bird in a hunter's hand, his silver eyes wide, his dark curls spilled over Fëanáro's pillow. His cheeks are flushed pink, his pupils blown, lips parted and kiss-swollen.

"You're scared." It's not a question but a statement. Makalaurë nods, and Fëanáro dips down to steal another lingering, open-mouthed kiss. Don't be afraid," he whispers, their breath mingling. "I've got you." Makalaurë shivers still harder, but Fëanáro doesn't think it's from fear.

"I know," Makalaurë says, voice rough with want but still melodic. "I love you, Atar."

Fëanáro's hands works its way down pale skin to curl warm, rough fingers around Makalaurë's erection, and he smiles to himself at the low, breathy moan the touch elicits. He has always preferred vocal lovers — his hand moves, pulls, twists, and Makalaurë's hips surge forward and his eyelids slip shut as he cries out — and his sweet singer is as vocal as it gets.

"Káno, sweet songbird," he whispers, and Makalaurë's eyes flutter open again. "Come for me, Káno."

He does, spilling over Fëanáro's hand with a cry of "Atar!" so loud that Fëanáro is truly surprised the whole house didn't hear.

"You're mine now," he purrs, low and deep in the bottom of his throat.

"I always was," Makalaurë murmurs, his beautiful lips curled into a sated smile.


End file.
